


another night's watch

by blackrose_juri



Series: Treacherous Saints [3]
Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Anal Fingering, Multi, Pegging, Someone's in denial about their Feelings, Strap-on blowjob, Wake POV (2nd person), indulgent porn, the questionable morality of Pyrrha's relationship with Wake while in Gideon's body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrose_juri/pseuds/blackrose_juri
Summary: In your violent fantasies of this exact encounter, you’d assumed cruelty to be your guide—that you’d seek to hurt, to punish—but now, you defer to a hazy tenderness, and she melts wholly into your embrace.She needs you with the ferocity of a sentient urge.And you don’t entirely mind.--Wake pegs Pyrrha.
Relationships: Pyrrha Dve/Wake | Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead
Series: Treacherous Saints [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062203
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	another night's watch

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, I've come to peddle some smut. 
> 
> I wrote another Pyrrwakeon fic recently that mentioned pegging in ch.7, and I figured I'd give it a more intimate treatment from Wake's POV, simple as that. Pyrrha seems to recall the events a bit _differently_ , but she's doing her best. Check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150341/chapters/68975004) if you'd like the context, but either way, please enjoy some standalone porn. Hope ya like!
> 
> Dedicated to discord friends and enablers.

Moonless and stagnant, the first midnight hour comes and goes without the expected interruption.

A steady, pearlescent trail of smoke crawls from your lips to the ceiling and catches the pale blue of the lamp atop your desk, and you drum your fingers on your naked thigh and bide your time, track the motion and the glow. Beyond the window at your back, the docking bays lie dormant, quiet, your officers’ ships as restful as their inhabitants.

You always insist on courtesy shifts such as these when you travel off-territory. Any of your kin would bend over backwards to carry the burden of sleeplessness for you, but yours is a brand of leadership bolstered by your willingness to share your soldiers’ toils.

And tonight, as such—as has been your routine for several weeks, now, during this extended stay in hostile space—you take watch over Eden’s finest in word and not in action, your shoulders turned and your afterthought of a robe untied and sprawled open over your bare torso, and you await your camp’s intruder with your nonchalance performative and your throat tight for another sordid, treacherous bout of fucking.

Frankly, you deserve it—tedious bastard of a war criminal, Gaius.

Leave it to a lich to test your patience.

Leave it to her to do the same. 

Humid, ash-scented air hangs thickly about your chamber, yet-unflushed through the shoddy vents above your head but not entirely to blame for the thin layer of sweat at your brow and collar. Hell of a day it’s been. You rest your hips on the edge of your desk, carefully balance the discomfort to keep yourself alert, and tune into the dull _clunk, clunk, clunk_ of footsteps in the corridor. They propagate through the metal studs as industrial whispers, each impact uncanny in its softness. (The _approach_ you despise most of all, how the gentle echo of those boots strips you of your title and renders you ghost bait.)

You close your eyes as seconds stretch, take a drag, attempt with scant result, just for a moment, to quell the anticipation.

Pyrrha doesn’t knock. She hasn’t knocked in over a month. Your bedroom door screeches open and howls shut—furious metal, the typical score—and in she walks, your wizard fetish, your mercurial predator of a pet, here to avail herself of your obliging hand.

“Took you long enough.” (You say this, narrow-eyed and still, as if her presence hasn’t doused your temper outright.)

She says, “Punish me for his kindness, if you’d like,” and pulls Gideon’s shirt up and off his stolen body, flaunts his skin like it’s her favorite suit of armor. Gideon the First, lover-turned-regalia. Pyrrha wears him well, unfortunately. Half-crouched, she occupies herself with his bootlaces. “Cyth kept him busy—heavy lifting, errands. She’s fond of him in her own way, but I’ll spare you the history lesson.”

“How generous.”

You cross your ankles, dig your palms into the desk’s edge, and endure the familiar performance. In most contexts, Pyrrha remains a mystery to you—you may never know her motives, if motive at all retains its power and relevance in death—but within the confines of your room, she is shamelessly consistent; she slips out of Gideon’s shoes, rolls his neck and shoulders, sighs her ostentatious sigh, and only after this indulgence does she turn those eyes on you.

She always looks at you this way. In fact, she makes a _point_ out of it—out of the gradual, deliberate study of your body, of your silhouette and your scars and your pressure points, as if she intends to rend you with teeth and restitch you with tongue and hasn’t yet decided where to start. It is nothing more and nothing less than an opening strike, and as it lands and guts you, the second comes by way of that terrible grin—cocksure, crooked, wrong.

(“I can be generous,” Pyrrha says, and heaven knows she can.)

Way back when, you’d slapped that stone quarry face for lesser transgressions, but now she closes the distance on borrowed legs and stifles the impulse, kisses you with a tenderness that burns. You recall the wasted hour and take your fill; you part your mouth for her as eagerly as flesh for a spearhead and taste Gideon’s tongue at her behest, and you curse yourself to no end that this ignites you twice-over. 

With pointed knuckles, she strips you stark, slides the robe from your shoulders and, like clockwork, curls over you and sucks the skin beneath the ridge of your collar. Paltry shield, foresight; you shiver despite yourself, arm flung out as an anchor behind you, cigarette still lit between your fingers. (And somewhere in the insidious, honest center of you, you resent the way your body tempts you to succumb—how it begs you to wrap your legs around his waist and let her fuck you into tomorrow’s council—but for once, it’s the promise of novelty, not spite, that spurs your resistance.)

You watch smoke drift into the overhead grille, and you swallow as she encroaches upon your jaw, breathes along the course of your jugular vein. “Do you still want me to—”

Low, long-drawn approval rumbles just below your ear, and in its cadence, she dethrones you and placates you with the illusion of control. You take what you can get. You disentangle; she steps out of Gideon’s trousers, and you reach for a drawer.

(On the topic of honesty, you must admit that lately you’ve been struggling to distinguish excitement from madness, and Pyrrha—Pyrrha, who delights in obfuscation— _knows_ this and teases you for it.

As you’d twisted under his weight last night and grazed oblivion, she’d whispered sweet cruelty to you—a coy, calculated, _“Would you like to be in charge next time, Commander?”_ that’d turned acceptance pitiful and denial unwise.

She’d offered you power like a toy, and now you wear it as a harness; she pulls you by its straps, leads you with her to the wall, and pins herself back-first to it _for you,_ just to piss you off. It fucking works, and it makes you want to hurt her, so you—)

—entertain her whim and bite softly at Gideon’s lip, drag your fingers up his thighs the way she likes, and she drapes an arm over your shoulder, rests the hand at your nape. The other stays by your waist; she jerks you off for her own satisfaction, and for yours, you sink into the approximation of the act; you lean into her, kiss her hard, grip her through the medium of Gideon’s body.

You can’t help yourself. In moments such as these, when he’s rigid for you on her behalf, you ponder differences. You doubt he’d express pleasure with Pyrrha’s abandon, or chuckle as she does when your tongue meets his pulse point. And if you gave him a directive like you give to her now (“ _Your mouth._ ”), you can’t imagine he’d sit you down in your chair and crawl between your legs and kiss up your thighs with her enthusiasm, like it’s the event of the fucking century.

Pyrrha _hungers_ with every combined inch of him and trace of her, and she takes with equal fervor, if not greater. You catch determination in those crystalline brown eyes, and she crosses her lover’s wrists behind his back as preparation and challenge.

She nuzzles below your navel and alights with long kisses to meet stiff silicone. You splay your fingers over smooth, buzzed russet hair as she halts, inhales, and savors the scent of you. The shaft glistens as she draws lips and tongue back along its side, and you are wet beyond description; you ache from core to extremities, and Pyrrha hums in amusement, in awareness, and fills Gideon’s mouth for you.

Motion, rhythm, depth; she endures you with a skill that speaks volumes about them both. Hands curled over strong cheekbones and exertion-flushed ears, you pull her to the base, hold her against you. Faster, and she keeps tempo, entreats you to steal her breath with muffled acceptance. Almost involuntarily, your leg hooks over one shoulder, and your heel falls against firm muscle, and your hips push forward as the pressure builds and taunts you with the promise of release.

You grit your teeth and swear and let yourself be taunted—

If she expects you to give, you reserve the right to take your payment in advance; you tilt your head back over your chair, and you fuck Gideon the First’s face until you come trembling.

You reclaim yourself, eventually.

She withdraws and pants, hot and rapid, into your thigh. Deltoids shift as wrists uncross, and you lift her by the chin, and what follows is a sweltering blur as you prepare to unravel her as reward:

You lead Pyrrha to your bed.

She kneels on your mattress, and you behind her.

You hold one forearm and bind it between your bodies, pinned to lower back. A tight claw wraps your other hand, the right, as it sweeps upward over pelvis and abdomen and smooth pectorals, and that stolen heart—the one you’d sworn you’d carve out and gild as a paperweight—thumps fast and hard and heavy beneath your palm. You kiss down the back of Gideon’s neck and caress up the front of it, arc over jaw, chin, lips; Pyrrha turns with the course of your touch and catches you in the corner of her vision.

“ _Commander_.” A whisper. A plea. You release the arm and reach for the bottle on your nightstand, and she twitches at the hip, grazes the strap.

“Patience,” you chastise quietly, more shape than sound, and she moans—whimpers—as thumb presses sacrum and slick fingers dip between the toned muscle of Gideon’s rear.

With slow circles, you hint at entry, and you drop your right hand to land on his inner thigh. Pyrrha tenses and shudders as you trail fingertips higher, brush over perineum, drag up the length of Gideon’s cock. In tandem, you stroke lightly and push inside, and she sinks back on his haunches to yield to your digits.

(In your violent fantasies of this exact encounter, you’d assumed cruelty to be your guide—that you’d seek to hurt, to punish—but now, you defer to a hazy tenderness, and she melts wholly into your embrace.

She needs you with the ferocity of a sentient urge.

And you don’t entirely mind.)

You gamble:

“Say it.”

“ _Awake_.”

“All of it.”

She _does_.

Unbelievable. You breathe your laughter between the blades of Gideon’s shoulders, and she lets hers out into the ash-and-sweat scent of the air. The levity chips away at your threadbare defenses. “If this is all it takes”—you curl your fingers over his tip, and a gasp chokes her mirth—“I’ve been wasting my energy. Let’s see if he remembers when he wakes up.”

You silence her—face-first, into your pillow—and slick the silicone mass in your palm.

“Now, _writhe_.”

And she obeys; she withholds nothing from you as you ease inside. You bend over her, guide her by the hip, and thrust at your leisure; she searches with a hand, whines, and grips your hair. Desperate, she kicks both legs back to lie prone, and you follow her down, chest flush, and you angle your fist just enough that she pitches into it as you rock forward. Your mattress groans under your combined weight, and she growls, low and animal-like, and strokes Gideon’s shaft in earnest, fingers contacting yours.

This is conquest for you.

Exorcism, for her.

For both of your sakes, you fuck her harder.

She doesn’t last long. 

(Another night’s watch spent on rapturous thrashing and shared sweat, and you’ve accrued another knife-notch for your tally of bad habits.

Eden suffers a papercut and heals the wound before it registers.

You invite yours to stay in bed, slake your thirst for self-sabotage, and spill your secrets like entrails.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And thanks, again, to [gallpall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallpall/pseuds/gallpall) for enduring my smutty liveblogging, as always.
> 
> \--
> 
> Author's note that you should definitely not read under any circumstances (cw: crack): 
> 
> _Absent from the text is Gideon the First's perspective, wherein he's having a very sexy dream about a day at the spa but is quite confused as to why his red-haired masseuse has such a long nametag. Uh-oh, it appears he left his wallet at home. Whatever shall he do?_


End file.
